Businessman and Barista
by TheRockNRollBeauty
Summary: Alfred loves to engaged in flirty games with the customers who stop by the small coffee shop where he works. But he has no idea that his game is about to pique the interest of a certain up and coming businessman named Ivan. Rated for sex and agekink.
1. Most Interesting Barista in The World

**Hello all! **

**This here is an AU that I came up with with the help of a few people on Tumblr-and I'm hoping that this will wind up being another longfic. :) It's pretty much just a fluffy and sexy AU about businessman Ivan falling head over heels for hot young coffee barista Alfred.**

**This fic will eventually have sexual content, and Alfred is underaged for most of it, so...if agekink is not your thing, be careful.**

**With that said, enjoy!**

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><p>Alfred F. Jones is sixteen years old.<p>

Alfred F. Jones is sixteen years old and just barely sprung past the awkward phase of puberty to the part of his life when his shiny, straw-blonde hair and bright blue eyes can be appreciated and admired despite the scrawniness of his still-growing figure.

Alfred is sixteen years old and working hard at his first real job, a tiny coffee shop fortunately located on the edge of the cluster of behemoth financial buildings downtown but unfortunately nestled between a gym full of pudgy, sweaty locals and a crummy looking dive bar that often required a double shift of "vomit patrol" on the weekends by a very disgusted and thickly-browed co-worker.

Alfred F. Jones is sixteen years old, blonde haired and blue-eyed, working his first job as a sunny barista at a stop in a terrible location—but, Alfred F. Jones is also another thing.

He is a insufferable, _incurable _flirt.

It helps his coy nature, being the only one that their manager, Francis, can bear to put on the frontlines, working the register and greeting the variety of customers with a smile and a happy word. After cycling through Alfred's co-workers—Gilbert, Arthur, and Matthias—Francis decided it more more economic and safer to have Alfred cater to the customers. After incidents that involved thrown and shattered syrup bottles, inexplicably burnt iced tea, and a vicious shouting match at an unfortunate Swedish businessman who had complained about his coffee, Alfred had been promoted from dish duty, a situation that his pruned fingertips found especially advantageous.

But it wasn't only that. Being on register meant that Alfred got to see every customer that came and went during his evening, after school shift—giving Alfred opportunity to glance over the best the downtown district had to offer.

Normally the fare was small, with an occasional cutie coming in flustered to order coffee for his boss. Alfred enjoyed the little moments of flirting and teasing that he had, and never worried all that much about the possibility of anything serious ever springing from his fun.

But Alfred's life—the fun, flirty lifestyle that many teenagers of his age had—was about to be inexplicably changed. Changed in the way that seemed as if it would only happen in some form of cheesy Hollywood romance: in which a plucky young heroine is suddenly swept off her feet by a prince who falls into her lap completely out of the blue.

It's a Tuesday evening, a bit on the slow side as Alfred nods at his post, wanting badly to sit and rest his aching feet by the tables that Matthias is currently cleaning. Alfred sips at a small cup of espresso he'd made an hour ago that had long grown cold. He blows absentmindedly at a strand of hair that falls before his eyes, mind swimming with thoughts of school and homework and hopes that he can carpool with Gilbert back home once both of their shifts end.

But Alfred snaps to attention when he hears the click and jingle of the coffee shop door swinging open, letting in a cool breeze of air as well as the sounds of cars and mid-evening traffic from outside. Alfred lifts his chin from where it's planted in his palm, glancing up at the customer who had walked with first a double, then a triple take.

He's tall—that's the first and only thing that Alfred notices about him when the man walks in for the very first time, almost scraping the tiny bell hanging from the doorframe with the top of his head. He's tall and he looks important in a dark blue suit and tie and crisp white collar and a black messenger bag hung over his shoulder. Eventually Alfred realizes that the man is more than tall and distinguished as he glances briefly up the man's face and body—happy to notice that he didn't appear to be all that old, unlike some of the stuffier businessmen who occasionally stumble upon their coffee house.

Alfred feels excited, glad that at least someone had turned up to jumpstart his uneventful shift.

"Hello there!" He greets, with a bright and sunny disposition, as always. The man glances up briefly and gives a slight wave of his hand. Alfred can see an expensive gold glint peer out of the man's dark suit sleeve, but is distracted as the man's pale lips move.

"Good evening."

The man's voice—calm, collected, but not monotonous or disinterested— immediately catches Alfred's attention. Normally the customers—especially the big, important-looking types that came in the evening after a long day—regarding him with a tired, polite smile and a mumble of an order. But the man's voice is as crisp as his shirt, not at all stiff but—warm. _Friendly._

The thoughts put a goofy smile on Alfred's face as the man approaches the register with long, lugubrious strides, taking his time despite the hurried pace that men of his status normally had. Suddenly Alfred feels strange, lighter. He finally realizes that his heart has begun to pick up its beats, as if compensating for the customer's slow steps.

"S-So," He tries his best to contain his stutter as he speaks once the man has stopped in front of the register, "What'll it be?"

The man orders a large coffee, _black,_and Alfred types the price into the register, glancing up at the man from below his eyelids after each keystroke. Instead of glancing about or staring at the fancy watch on his wrist, the man's eyes are focused at him—or at the top of his head, or at something behind him, Alfred doesn't really know. But he really likes to think that the man's eyes are on him.

_Jeez, he really is hopeless, isn't he?_

Alfred finishes typing in the order and waits for the receipt to print, the scratchy, mechanical sounds the only noise until Alfred breaks the otherwise prolonged silence.

"S-so, how are you doing tonight, man? Getting a quick pick me up before another boring board meeting, yeah?"

It's stupid to say and nothing like the clever and witty banter that Alfred usually has in store, but at the moment it is all that Alfred could muster.

But the man chuckles, and smiles, and—

And something in the man's smile—the slight, private grin that he sends the young barista—makes Alfred bob a little in place, rocking back on his heels as he gives the older man a quicker, closer look up and down from the shiny shoes barely visible beyond the register to the crown of a head of beige-blonde. Alfred had never seen the color before.

The receipt had long printed out into Alfred's hand, but the young barista has been caught up in listening to the other man speak—talking of how he had finished his work for the day, and was heading home early—and enjoying the comfortable sound and the way that it made him_ feel._

He only comes back to his senses when the older man lets out a light cough, snapping the young barista back into reality. Alfred realized with a soft blush that the other man had noticed his staring. Averting his eyes, Alfred tears the receipt away quickly and handed it to the older man—perhaps moving his fingers a little more than usual to brush coyly against the customer's palm.

Drawing back from the brief touch and scrambling for some semblance of his usually impeccable customer service—pointedly ignoring the raised eyebrow that Matthias gave him from where the other was clearing tables—Alfred picks up one of the cups and a Sharpie pen, giving the man a sheepish and apologetic grin.

"Ah, um—sorry about that. Name?"

He could've sworn the man's face had more color than it had a moment ago. The pale lips look a bit pinker as they move.

"Braginski," The response is short but not curt, and delivered with a slight bob of the head as the man adjusts his tie.

"Hmm?" Alfred smirks, letting out a small laugh, "Braginski? Yeah, all right-y then, 'comrade'."

Alfred wonders if the stupid jab was a little too much but the man smiles again, so Alfred continues.

"Well, I gotta say, big guy, you're the first Russian that I've had all day," Alfred finishes scribbling the name on the cup and sets it down, leaning forward a bit and coyly looking up at the businessman, "Maybe all month, even."

"Is that so?" Ivan folds the receipt precisely, stowing it into his pocket, "Well, I must say that you are the most—interesting cashier that I have seen all week. All month, perhaps."

Alfred could have kicked up his heels in delight. Responsive flirting is the best, the absolute best, especially when it's with a smokin' hot, foreign-sounding businessman. He smirks, moving, sashaying away from the counter over to the machines where the coffee was brewed

"Oh yeah?" He calls over his shoulder at the businessman, "Wait until you taste your coffee, mister. Then I'll be the best you've had all _year_."

Alfred would've kicked himself for the fumbling cheesiness of his banter if not for the continuous smile the businessman gives him before he walks over to one of the table to sit and wait patiently for his drink. That smile—it leaves Alfred so distracted that he almost ruins the man's simple coffee, nearly burning his hand on the boiling liquid in the process. Finally, however, Alfred has the order ready without being completely worse for the wear or requiring extensive skin grafts. Wiping his hand on the forest green apron he's wearing, Alfred turns around to give the cup to the customer—

—And his eyes promptly fall on the uncapped black Sharpie lying on the counter. Alfred stares at it for a moment, biting his lip.

He always writes little messages and such on the cups of his regulars, noting their quirks or making an inside joke. He had just met the guy, and probably would never see him again, but—Alfred feels compelled to do the same to this mysterious "Braginski's" cup. Besides, the businessman isn't the crusty old unresponsive type—he might just get a kick out of it.

Grabbing the pen, Alfred begins to scribble on the cup right below the customer's name, writing out a quick message and even daring to doodle a tiny blob of a heart right next to it. Blowing on the message once to make sure it didn't smudge, Alfred pops up and sets the steaming hot cup on the counter. He taps the table once, twice, in order to get the seated man's attention. When he looks up, Alfred is treated to another glimpse of the face that makes his chest squeeze. Alfred clears his throat and makes himself speak.

"Ding ding, dude. Order up."

The businessman gets up from where he had been sitting and, without any fuss or fanfare, takes the cup from Alfred with a quiet thanks and a smile. The message is covered by his large, pale hand, and Alfred wonders, as the tall man leaves, whether or not he will even read the little blurb before he crumples up the cup and tosses it away. Though Alfred knows—even if "Braginski" never saw it—that what he had written had been solid, flirtatious gold.

Even after his shifts ends and he hitches a ride home with Gilbert, Alfred can't get the image of the tall, undeniably hot businessman out of his head. And when he is lying in bed, trying to sleep, he can't help but go over the words he'd written in his head and wonder whether the man had read them or not.

Alfred covers his face with a pillow and speaks the words into the soft, cottony mask.

_"To: Mr. Tall Russian Business Guy,_

_Love: The Most Interesting Barista in the World."_


	2. Second Impressions Are Important Too

**Next chapter! In which Alfred gains a new regular, and perhaps something more~**

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><p>Alfred doesn'expect much to come from the all too brief meeting with the tall businessman. After all, that was how all of Alfred's flirations ended—with a raised eyebrow and a coy smile, followed by a quick goodbye and a speedy exit.<p>

And those fancy important looking guys who happened to stumble upon the tiny cofee shop almost always never returned to pay a second visit. Alfred couldn't remember a time when he'd seen one of his "targets" more than once. And that was fine with the young teen—it was really all just a fun game, wasn't it?

So Alfred is surprised, to say the very least, when, the very next day, he looks up from taking the order of a middle aged woman in a chartreuse pantsuit to see a glimmer of strange-but-familiar hair skim up from the back of the line at the register. Not only hair but a face. A face that had sent all kinds of tingly feelings up Alfred's body for the duration of the previous evening. He'd woken up thinking of that face, of the warm purple eyes and the sheen of that pale hair, that _smile—_

Alfred drops his pen, and it clatters to the counter much to the displeasure of the female customer, whose order for a caramel whipped macchiato goes right over Alfred's head.

Matthias, who's cleaning up the coffee machines behind him, notices Alfred's pause and peers over the counter, instantly noting the cause of the teen's sudden stop. Smirking, he nudges Alfred in the ribs.

"Hey, look who's back. Got any more smooth moves for Mr. Hot Russian Businessman there?"

Alfred swallowed, but couldn't surpress the sudden rush of excitement that washed over him upon seeing the businessman again. Him and that smile, the one that he was currently giving Alfred now over the heads of the other customers—it was way too much.

Shrugging Matthias off, Alfred quickly recomposed himself, mechanically taking the orders of all those who had suddenly come between him and another flirty session with the responsive and seemignly interested businessman.

Alfred bounced on the balls of his feet, unable to contain his excited squirming as the tall man_ finally _arrived at the register, kind smile growing to a full grin at Alfred's exuberant appearance. Alfred smirked, putting on hand on a canted hip and looking right up at the tall businessman.

"Well, well, well—look who's back."

The businessman was wearing a different suit today—dark gray, with a lavender tie that almost matched the strange dusky shade of his eyes. The soft smile seemed to extend all the way up to his irises—something that Alfred had not noticed yesterday.

But Alfred had certainly noticed—and remembered—that _voice._

"Good evening."

The man ordered the same as he had yesterday—tall coffee, black—but instead of going down to sit at one of the tables, the way the other customers did, he stayed close by the counter, peering over to watch as Alfred worked, brewing the coffee in the bubbling machine and pouring it steaming hot into the styrofoam cup. Alfred occasionally peered over his shoulder, and couldn't help but wiggle his hips a bit whenever he caught the businessman staring.

_This game was really starting to heat up. _Good thing that Alfred loved to play—as long as it stayed at just that. A game.

He again scribbled on the coffee cup, as this had been an established rule of this particular game since yesterday evening. He thought for a moment, tapping the Sharpie against his cheek, before he inwardly snapped his fingers and wrote the new message down.

The barista then put a cover on the coffee cup before he sauntered back to the counter, placing it right in front of where the businessman stood, bending over a bit to lean an elbow on the counter to close the distance between the two of them.

"So, what's the deal? You coming back in here tomorrow?" Alfred didn't want to sound too hopeful, but his tone sounded far more uncertain than he'd meant it too, "I mean, two visits to the same shop in a row? That's practically a commitement in my mind, dude. And I get hella attached to my regulars, don't cha know."

The tall man cocked his head and put on a show of expression as if he were thinking hard about Alfred's question. After a moment, he chuckled at some amusing thought unknowable to the barista, before looking back at Alfred.

"I think that perhaps I may. This place is fortunately located between my office and—admittedly—it is not without its _charms_."

Alfred snorted, but didn't miss the slow, steady way that the tall man said the word "_charms_," with a slight inflection of the tongue that suggested that the appeal of the coffee shop lay in more than the faux-European interior and muted atmosphere.

Alfred was about to reply, witty retort all prepared and ready, when Ivan spoke up again.

"I think that perhaps, I will make visiting this place one of my daily rituals. After all—"

He lifted his hand slowly, Alfred's eyes instantly drawn to the movement.

"I do quite enjoy all the various sights and _smells_."

Alfred thought for a brief, overly-hopeful moment that the tall man was moving to touch, or to maybe even lift and tuck a piece of stringly blonde hair behind the barista's ear. The thought made him excited ad flustered at the same time, but it went unfulfilled as the businessman instead reached down to pick up his cup of coffee.

"Thank you, Alfred," The barista started and began to question _how _he knew his name when the businessman chuckled and pointed to Alfred's chest.

"Your nametag. Do you forget that you are wearing it, Alfred?" Ivan shook his head and Alfred stumbled over his words, blush pinking his cheeks.

"Hey, now, don't pull that. 'S been a long ass day," Alfred retorted, trying to have control over how _good _it made him feel to hear the man call his name. Alfred licked his lips surreptitiously as the businessman flicked his wrist up to his face to check his watch. After exchanging a quick goodbye and a faltering wave, the businessman left again, with only a final smile and a promise that he would return the next day clouding Alfred's head.

The barista watched the businessman through the glass windows of the storefront, observing as the tall figure stopped and held up the coffee cup to his eyes. Alfred's breath hitched in his throat as he saw him peer at the cup for a moment, almost as if he were—

_Reading._

Alfred's chest fluttered, as he wondered what, in that moment, the newly christened "Mr. Nice Sexy Suit" was thinking.


	3. What's In A Name?

So far, Alfred could say without a doubt that the game he was currently playing with the businessman was the best that he had ever had.

Alfred enjoyed it, finding himself looking forward to it every day and pining after it late at night. He enjoyed the paradox that the tall businessman brought with him every time he stopped by the coffee shop—the fierce, excited beatings of Alfred's heart coupled with the sudden calm that ran awash over his mind whenever he heard a _cling_ of the door and saw the bob of pale hair just barely graze the doorbell.

Somehow, they fell into a routine that still served some unpredictability. Although much was the same—the businessman would enter with a smile and a wave, and Alfred would beam back a bright "hello!" before the two settled into a brief round of banter and gossip—everyday still provided Alfred with a new experience.

For one, the nicknames that Alfred had started to write on the businessman's cups soon became somewhat of a trend that varied daily, serving as a coy form of communication between flirter and flirtee. As the days passed, the messages and nicknames that Alfred grew more elaborate and more daring—ranging from the tame "Mr. Well-Conditioned Hair" to the more adventurous "Mr. Your Accent Makes Me Go All Crazy Inside," and sometimes even _worse_ when one of his dickish coworkers would try to intervene.

One day, when Francis had called Alfred back in the middle of the man's order for some reason or another, Matthias had taken it upon himself to write his own message onto the businessman's cup. Alfred had come back to late to intercept him as he handed the cup to the man, and only a brief round of whining and tussling was needed to make Matthias reveal what _exactly_ he had wrote.

Alfred had wondered whether Ivan would come back the next day after being named "Mr. Please Bend Me Over the Table in the Back Room" but, sure enough, the businessman was back again, armed with a joke about yesterday's message that made Alfred's cheeks go undeniably red. But the man had not unnecessarily mocked him for it, and never strayed from that soft, kind smile that, no matter what, made coming into work worthwhile.

It was fun, it was _safe_, and Alfred liked it that way. Alfred felt that he could always rely on the businessman being there, and it guaranteed the sharp-tongued blonde someone to talk to, making him brighten even on days when he felt completely down on himself.

Then, one day, Alfred got sick.

He assumed it was food poisoning by the way he had to stagger to the side of the road on his way to work and vomit out his stomach contents into a nearby trashcan. By the time he had finally made it to the coffee shop, he was pale and smelled terribly of acid and regurgitated french fries. And then, once he crossed over the store's doorjamb, he—as Matthias had called it—"blew chunks" all over the floors that had most likely just been mopped by Arthur, as Alfred recalled hearing a loud, harsh swear from his irritable coworker.

Their manager, Francis, though well known for his less than sanitary reputation with regards to certain _activities_, was surprisingly germaphobic. After he had shrieked at the sight of the vomit and promptly instructed Arthur to clean it up, he had guided Alfred to the side and expressly forbidden the boy from working until the bug was completely out of his system. And though Alfred insisted that he would feel fine in a few hours, Francis had tutted and clicked him tongue before sending the boy on his way back home, accompanied by a snarky Gilbert who made jabs every time the poor teenager looked the slightest bit queasy.

Thus, Alfred was given three days off to recuperate. And as he had sat on his couch, blanket wrapped around him, sniffling and sneezing into a soggy bowl of Cocoa Puffs, he figured that this would be the end of his game. Once Ivan came in and didn't see Alfred, smiling and flushing up at the register, he would most likely lose interest and stop coming around the coffee shop like clockwork. Alfred had hunched further into his cereal at the thought, sniffing lightly because _darn it_, he'd liked those daily interactions with the as of yet unnamed businessman. Alfred had then rubbed his eyes and tried to focus on the cartoons he was watching.

Because if there was one thing he had wanted to know before that game ended, it would have been the businessman's name.

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><p>On the first of Alfred's sick days, Francis had assigned Gilbert to man the front register, reasoning that he was perhaps the least volatile out of all his remaining staff. And for the most part, he was right, as Gilbert was more wont to crack inappropriate joke than cause harm to either the bodies or stomachs of their customers. Francis had learned his lessons, and while Gilbert could be a pain in the ass, he was a preferably choice to either Mattias or Arthur.<p>

So, the fair-skinned teen was stuck working at the register for the entirety of his shift, blowing hair out of his eyes and making the most of the boring arms by making snarky quips at the people who came in and trying not to think of how he wished that Alfie were there instead.

Though it wasn't that he just wanted to be relieved of register-duty, though that was certainly a part of why he wished his sunny co-worker to be there.

You see, Gilbert liked to think of himself as a kind of older brother figure to Alfred. Though he teased the younger teenager mercilessly, Gilbert also, almost _cared_ for Alfred, though not in any kind of weird fruity way or anything. No, he just felt like it was almost his _job_ to protect Alfred, or at least help the hopeless ditz bumble along through his teenaged years without sustained damage.

And Gilbert knew that the other two—Artie and Matt—they felt the same. Gilbert figured it had something to do with some kind of brotherly instinct. After all, he and Arthur both had younger brothers, and Matthias came from a large family and was the oldest of five. So, to them, Alfie getting sick was almost like one of their brothers falling ill, and, _hell_, it did worry them.

But Gilbert tried not to think of Alfie and his illness, and, for once, tried to focus on his work, if only to get the images of the blonde barista pale and sniffling and hopefully not all by himself.

In a few hours, the rush from lunch had slowed to a crawl, and Gilbert leaned up against the register, completely bored out of his mind as he chewed on a split nail. He was about to crouch down on the floor, maybe to take a brief nap, when he heard the chime of a bell.

Gilbert looked up, unsurprised to see that the familiar businessman was making his daily rounds to the coffee shop. Though, today he looked more like a lost and confused kitten as he blinked, stopping in his tracks at the unfamiliar man standing at the register. Gilbert inhaled his breath, realizing that he would have to explain where the businessman's flirtatious barista had gone to.

"Hey there, dude," Gilbert called, hands shoved into his pockets as he addressed the tall man, "You're outta luck today, Alfie's not here."

The businessman seemed to snap out of his daze, then, and walked, perhaps a bit more unsurely than usual, up to the register. He honestly looked a bit disappointed, which irked Gilbert.

The businessman rubbed his hand over his chin, looking over Gilbert's shoulder, as if trying to catch a glimpse of blonde hair in the slip of the backroom that was visible. When he couldn't he turned back to the cashier.

"Where is he?"

Gilbert shrugged, biting on his fingernail again.

"He's sick. Stomach flu."

The businessman swallowed noticeably, and when he spoke, his voice was had a slight weedy, strained tone to it.

"He is sick? How sick is he?"

He was apparently no longer trying to conceal the concern in his voice, as the man's worry did not escape Gilbert's notice. Gilbert bit his lip, wondering whether or not he should tell the businessman about Alfred's condition, but in the end he decided it wouldn't hurt.

"He's not too badly sick, just taking out for a few days." Gilbert sighed, tapping his fingers on the counter, "So, what? You going to order coffee?"

The businessman contemplated for a moment, before shaking his head.

"No, I do not think I will today," He scanned the glass case to the left of the register, which was filled with sandwiches and breakfast pastries, "Just an apple danish, please."

Gilbert shrugged again, ringing up the businessman's order and swiping his card before bending down by the glass case to get the man's pastry, trying to indiscreetly watch him as he walked over to his usual table and sat, drumming his fingers on the table.

Gilbert pulled out the pastry with a pair of tongs and placed the man's apple danish in a bag, and was about to hand it to the man when he suddenly thought of something, and grinned.

_Oh man, he was a genius! Alfie was going to be kissing his ass because of this! Gilbert was the best friend in the world, yes he was. _

He quickly grabbed another napkin from the dispenser and, popping the cap off his red sharpie, began to scribble something on the edge, tongue pursed between his lips as he thought of how exactly he should word the message.

"Hey! Mr. Russian Weirdo!" Gilbert called, holding out the bag over the counter, "Here's your food."

The businessman rose, retrieving the bag with a quiet and reserved "thank you" before returning to his seat without another word. Unlike other times, when the man would simply leave with his coffee, he remained seated, munching quietly on the pastry, looking off into space, as if distracted. Gilbert fidgeted, nervous that perhaps the businessman would not see, or would ignore the message that the cashier had written:

_If you want to see your lover-boy, then come back in three days, Mr. Doesn't Want to Order Coffee from Anyone Else_.

Gilbert was going to continue watching the businessman when he heard a yell and a loud crash from the back room. Swearing, Gilbert left the register for a moment and yelled at Arthur, who had just dropped an armful of syrup bottles all over the floor, making a black and white mess of vanilla and chocolate on the floor. He left after it looked that Arthur was about to get a serious tongue-lashing from Francis, hurrying back to the register to see if he could catch the businessman responding to his message.

Gilbert scowled, mentally kicking himself as he saw the man get up to leave, leaving the empty bag and the stack of unused napkins on his table. After the businessman departed GIlbert left the deserted register and went over to the table, meaning to clean up the mess.

It was by some godsend of fate that the teenager saw something else written on the same napkin he had scrawled his message on. With his curiosity piqued, he stopped wiping down the table and picked up the napkin, trying to make out the refined, looping words marked in thin blue ink.

Right under the his message, under the "Mr. Doesn't Want to Order Coffee From Anyone Else," the businessman had scrawled one simple, _monumental_ sentence.

_My name is Ivan_.

When Alfred finally came back after his sick days, Gilbert was first to show him the napkin and first to gloat about it was all hi genius plan that had made the businessman finally give up his name. And Alfred, fresh from a few wonderful days of rest, took the napkin in his hand, staring at it and the name.

Ivan. Ivan Braginski.

Alfred swallowed around the lump in his throat, feeling the palm clutching the napkin. Even though Alfred had not been there to flirt with him, the businessman had freely given his name after so long. And from Gilbert's stories, it had seemed that—that _Ivan_ had been legitimately concerned and worried for his wellbeing, which hinted that he was interested in Alfred as more than just simple, flirty fun.

The game was no longer a game.

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><p><strong>I kind of love the idea of Gilbert, Matthias, and Arthur all being Alfred's big brother figures at the coffee shop. Cute. :)<strong>


	4. Game Over, Man

Alfred spent the rest of his shift that day hardly paying attention to his work, his thoughts so full of Ivan and the game that wasn't a game. He even messed up a customer's order so badly that he had been prompted to make a new one—something that _never_ happened to the skillful barista.

He couldn't help it. All he could think about was _Ivan_, and how the barista actually knew his name now, and how the other man obviously had more interest in Alfred as more than just the subject of a flirty little game.

All he could think of, was that Ivan like, clockwork, would come in at his usual time, order his usual coffee, and then—_what_? Alfred had no idea what the businessman would say, or what he would want. He gnawed on his thumbnail, biting it down to the painful quick over the course of his shirt, eyeing the digital clock on his phone.

But Ivan didn't come by at his usual time, didn't come to order his coffee or smile or talk or flirt with Alfred as he had every day for the past few weeks. And then Alfred began to worry more—worry that he had done something wrong, that he had done something to scare Ivan off, or that maybe the businessman had simply lost interest once he had revealed his name. Maybe, after all, it had been a game to him too, just like it _had _been a game to Alfred—

But soon, Alfred became aware that it was certainly not the case.

It was at the end of his shift where Alfred peered over the counter on his tip toes and saw the familiar sleek black Mercedes Benz pull up the curb, and that recognizable mop of pale hair appearing out of the opened door. The hair was followed by the stoic face and the suit—today a dark, plum-purple—as Ivan stepped out of the car and onto the sidewalk, shutting the door behind him with a slam audible from the inside of the store.

Alfred expected Ivan to keep moving, up the brief flight of steps to the door of the coffee shop, opening it to come in and greet Alfred with a smile.

But Ivan didn't, he stopped and simply rested against the door of his car, arms folded, looking distracted and clearly _waiting_ for something—or someone.

Alfred gulped, and tried to finish the rest of his shift pointedly avoiding looking at Ivan and wondering why he was here and what he wanted. But he couldn't help it—every time he helped a customer, every time he prepared a drink—the hair, or the suit, or the glint of the gold watch as the man checked the time caught Alfred's eye and brought up a grand flurry of emotions.

_What the hell did he want?_ Alfred wanted nothing more than to march outside and ask the teasingly patient businessman _why_ he was handing outside the coffee shop and behaving like some kind of god damn stalker.

Maybe that's what Ivan was. Alfred had seen _American Psycho_, knew that those up and coming business types were all secretly evil crazy serial killers deep down just waiting to lure Alfred into his nice fancy-ass apartment just so he could axe murder him! _Yeah, that was it!_

But-Alfred stole another glance at Ivan, ducking away once the businessman looked his way—_hell_, Ivan didn't look like any kind of serial killer, and he certainly had never done anything that had ever rubbed Alfred the wrong way or sent alarm bells off in his head.

_Maybe—maybe Ivan Braginski was just a nice guy. _

In any case, Alfred resolved that he would find out, once and for all, _who_ Ivan was and _what_ exactly he wanted from him. And then Alfred could just either walk away and move on to other games or he could—see how long he and this Ivan Braginski could last.

So, with determination in his face and stride, Alfred left his shift late in the afternoon, still clad in his uniform with a sweatshirt half covering his shoulder, swallowing as he exited the front door of the coffee shop, almost ready to run in the opposite direction when the chime of the door bell caused Ivan to look up and stare directly at him. Their eyes locked for a moment before Alfred averted them, his throat tightening with nerves.

"H-hey you," Alfred called, scuffing his converse on the sidewalk, not yet approaching Ivan further, "You didn't come in for coffee today."

Ivan stopped leaning on the car and stood up straight, yet still keeping a fair distance between himself and the young barista. And then he smiled and spoke and Alfred's heart jumped in his chest because _aw damn it, he had really missed the businessman_.

"I did not think it was necessary today, Alfred. Besides, I had some work at the office that needed taking care of."

Alfred nodded, and shrugged his shoulder in a jerky, nervous movement.

"D-don't worry about it big guy. 'S not a problem. But—" Swallowing was very quickly becoming a kind of nervous tic for Alfred, "But, well, what are y' doing waiting out here if you don't want to go inside and get some coffee?"

_Damn it_, he was so damn nervous even just talking to Ivan now—_why_? Just a few days ago. Was it because he had learned the businessman's name? Was it because the man had waited for him for hours outside of the shop? Or was it because—

"Alfred, I thought that you would've understood by now that this is not about the coffee."

_Oh. Fuck. _

That was the moment where Alfred's legs went from feeling like Jell-O to simply not being there at all. Nothing at all—Alfred was just a floating torso now, the surprise at what the businessman had just said having made all feeling in his lower limbs disappear completely.

He swallowed hard, his throat hurting around the lump of nerves forming there. He wet his lips as he tried to say something back.

"W-well, um, maybe I thought that you were, that you were—" Alfred fidgeted with his hands, looking down.

Ivan watched, gaze patient and steady as Alfred struggled to give his feelings words. In the end of the young barista failed, voice petering out pathetically.

"I don't know what I thought." He trailed off, quietly, looking down at his sneakers. It was true, he had absolutely no idea what Ivan had thought throughout their little game.

Suddenly, a pair of shiny, black shoes appeared next to Alfred's, and the barista started and looked up to see Ivan—so _close_, closer than he had ever been before, as there had always been a salvational strip of counter and register between them, a respectful distance between worker and customer that had just been bridged with a couple simple steps.

Alfred thought that Ivan would reach out and touch him any moment, given the proximity, but the businessman did nothing but look down at Alfred with the soothing, confident smile and sharp eyes with a determination that Alfred's own eyes had held before his legs had turned to jelly.

"Do not be afraid of me, little Alfred. I am simply wanted to show you my appreciation for your, may I say, _excellent_ customer service for the past few weeks."

And then the businessman _did_ initiate physically contact, clapping a big, pale hand on the barista's shoulder, a gesture that could have been platonically friendly until it was made more intimate by a gentle squeeze and the rub of a thumb across Alfred's uniform shirt.

"Let me buy dinner for you, Alfred."

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><p><strong>A bit of a short chapter, sorry... D: But the real action is going to start up soon~<strong>


	5. A Date With Density

**Guys! I'm sorry this is so, so late! I was having some personal issues that kind of killed my writing buzz, but it's okay now! And I hope this extra long chapter makes up for it!**

**Alfred and Ivan finally go on their date~**

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><p>If anyone would've told Alfred that morning that he would be riding in a luxury Mercedes complete with freakin' <em>leather seats<em> next to a suave, confident businessman who kept glancing over to Alfred with that smooth smile, this time tinged with a hint of cocky fondness that had perhaps been more repressed before—Alfred would've never believed him. And yet here he was, trying his best to meld into the car door despite the obvious impossibility.

Alfred had hammered out some lame excuse for a text message to his parents, telling them he was going with Gilbert to meet some friends for pizza. The teenager prayed that they'd buy it, because Alfred would be grounded until his dying day if his parents discovered that he had accepted a ride and what was undeniably a dinner date from a hot, mysterious, _older_ stranger with a fancy car and some really nice distracting cologne.

The ride over to wherever Ivan was planning to take him was spent in silence, save for the times where the businessman broke it to ask him how his day at work was, or what he had done in school today. Alfred responded as concisely as he could, and soon asked if he could turn on the radio, if only to stem the tide of more questions.

Though classical music and smooth jazz did surprisingly little to calm the poor teenager's nerves.

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><p>Finally, Ivan pulled up to a place on the corner of a rather quiet intersection, sidewalks sparsely populated with those who looked to be about similar status as Ivan. The businessman handed off his keys to the smartly dressed valet, and before Alfred could do it himself Ivan had already opened the car door on the barista's side. Alfred swore for a moment that Ivan was going to lean in and offer the teenager his hand, but he didn't, and Alfred managed to slip out of the Mercedes unaided with his pride intact.<p>

Ivan did decide, however, to keep a firm hand on Alfred's shoulder as he guided him along the sidewalk to the restaurant's entrance, its name written in big and elaborate gold letters over the doorframe.

The restaurant looked fancy, too fancy for just a uniform and sweatshirt, both of which smelled heavily of coffee and caramel syrup. Alfred gulped and turned to Ivan, who looked blithely back.

"Uh, big guy, I don't think I can go in there—"

The businessman gave the boy a humoring chuckle, squeezing Alfred's shoulder as they entered through the gilded doors and into the airy, perfumed atmosphere of the restaurant.

"If they have a problem with you, then we will take our business elsewhere. But I do not think that they will."

Ivan then beckoned the hostess over and informed her of his reservations for two—which boggled Alfred, the way the businessman had actually reserved dinner with the young teenager in mind-and were immediately led to their table. Alfred's hammering heart started to quieten, as he thought that maybe the two could pass off as brothers, or maybe as a son and his ageless father—but then Ivan pulled out one of the chairs for him, and Alfred could only hope to hide his glowing face into the collar of his sweatshirt as he sat down.

Two menus were placed on the table as their waiter poured water into a pair of fancy crystal glasses. Alfred managed to squeak out a thank you, grateful to have something to wet his drying mouth. He took in a harsh gulp, his frazzled nerves calming somewhat as the cool water trickled down his throat and calmed the tight coil of tension in his stomach.

Alfred glanced over the menu items and nearly fainted right then and there upon seeing the prices. He had a measly amount of money in his wallet as it was, and didn't see any way of affording the vast majority of the food available.

Alfred despised salads with every inch of his being, but it was the only thing on the menu that he felt safe ordering-and the only thing that he could even conceivably afford. But when he told Ivan what he wanted to order, the businessman shook his head and reached over, plucking the menu from Alfred's hand.

"No, that will not do Alfred," He scanned it for a moment, "What about steak? Do you like steak?"

A steak sounded _heavenly_ right now but Alfred could pretty much hear his pocketbook crying out for mercy.

"Of course I like steak, but I only have enough for—"

But Ivan was not listening, instead he had waved over the waiter as he had passed by, and, before Alfred could protest, he began to order.

"The salmon for me, please." Ivan prodded at the menu before slipping the page to where the finest cuts of steak were listed.

"And the Porterhouse for my young friend here." Alfred didn't have a clue what that was even though the name was in English, so all he could do was splutter in response and cross his arms, defeated for the time being.

Ivan tapped his chin and glanced over the drink menu, furrowing his brows suddenly.

"Ah, I suppose you can not drink wine, yet, Alfred? That is a shame." He shut the menu, handing it back to the waiter, "Very well, then a Coke for him."

He turned towards Alfred and, in a lapse of his cocky, confident attitude, actually _asked_ Alfred, the first bit of apprehension in his voice.

"You do like soda, don't you?"

The teenager was taken aback a little at the question, hemming and hawing for a moment, thinking maybe he could take down the cocky businessman a peg and stop feeling so damn _vulnerable—_

"Of course I like soda, but, I mean, dude," Alfred fidgeted awkwardly, "You can't just like, order stuff for me like that—"

"But you_ like_ soda, no?"

Alfred shut his mouth, slowly realizing that this was not his battle to win. Sighing, he rested his chin in his hand, deflated.

"Yeah, I like soda."

Ivan smiled, confidence fully regained, and waved the waiter off.

Below the table, Alfred had his hands clenched tightly, fingers anxiously rubbing against the twisted napkin he had set in his lap. The dinner hadAlfred wasn't going to let something stupid like a date reduce him to some kind of wimp, blubbery pile of nerves.

And then, of course, like the mind reader that he was, Ivan decided it was a good time than and their to drop that atomic bombshell right on poor Alfred's head.

"How old are you, Alfred?"

And again the teenager's stoic wall of composure crumbled, leaving him pale-faced with his jaw slightly slack.

_Oh, oh crap, oh damn, oh no—_

Alfred's mind was suddenly racing a mile a minute. This guy-this guy was definitely, one-hundred percent not under the age of eighteen. Alfred had no idea how those kinds of laws worked, but he was pretty sure a guy like Ivan wouldn't want to risk it and be caught up in some messy lawsuit or trial or something because he fooled around with teenagers.

It could end this whole ordeal right then and there, because surely age and the threat of possibly breaking the law would curb Ivan's interest, but, well—

_Well_, some part of him piped up, _maybe you don't want that, maybe you want him to keep being interested in you—_

Before he could further weigh his options and fully process what he was saying he opened his mouth and the lie came tumbling out.

"Umm, e-eighteen, sir."

Ivan smirked into his wine, clearing his throat after the drink and smiling at Alfred, almost in victory.

"Ah. That is very good." Alfred wasn't sure if he was talking about the drink or what he young barista said.

Ivan clarified this hardly a moment later when he set down his glass and spoke again.

"Because you look _very_ youthful, Alfred. Not that I am complaining."

More silence pulled between them after that, Alfred still reeling from the fact that he had lied about his age and possibly dug himself deeper into a hole. He fixed his eyes on the golden glint of his silverware, trying to let the soothing classical music being piped in around him calm him down. He didn't look up to see whether Ivan had noticed this or not, because this would undoubtedly derail any calm feelings that were building.

Eventually, Ivan broke the silence again as he cleared his throat, and Alfred instinctually looked up. He expected Ivan to perhaps be a little aggravated at the barista's shaken nerves, but no-that ever patient smile was still there, peering from beyond the net of fingers that Ivan's chin was resting on.

"Alfred, Alfred Alfred," He mumbled pleasantly, "to think that I am finally able to have time to sit down and speak with you outside of your job."

He unlaced one of his hands and took a another sip of wine, sighing pleasantly before setting the glass down, absentmindedly sloshing the red liquid around.

"What do you like to do, Alfred? How do you spend your time when you are not working or at school?"

Alfred felt the slightest bit relieved at Ivan's form of question. This was the easy stuff, the stuff that he could manage-there was nothing about relationships, nothing about scary, fluttery feelings, and nothing about confusing and complicating age differences. Alfred took a deep breath and found that his old, comfortable smile slid back into place more easily.

"Well, sir, I do a lot of things. I play a lot of video games I guess. Do you play? Well, I guess probably not, you're too busy for that kind of stuff. But um—"

Alfred twisted his napkin in his hands, damning himself for not speaking as clear and smart as he would have liked. Not like he was trying to impress the businessman or anything like that. Nope.

"What is your favorite game, Alfred?" Well, at least Ivan had the courtesy to _sound_ interested. Whether he was faking it or not though, it made the teenager grin wider.

"Oh, dude, there's this one game I just bought a few weeks ago, it's amazing! The graphics are awesome and the controls are like-well, pretty much perfect, y'know? It's all about protecting the fate of this—"

Suddenly, he was cut off by an sharp exhale from Ivan, drawing the teenager up to meet the which, while still warm and soothing, were suddenly far more serious.

"Do you believe in fate, Alfred?"

Before the teenager could even begin to fathom a response, the waiter arrived with their food.

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><p>The rest of the dinner was spent with sparse chit chat between mouthfuls and the clicking sounds of silverware on plates. Well, rather, it consisted more of Ivan questioning Alfred about many things—his job, his school, his parents, his brother-and Alfred responding with short and noncommittal phrases and bobs of the head. He half-expected to Ivan to tire of the constant interrogation after Alfred's minimal response, but the businessman did not let up until the waiter came away to clear their plates, armed with the ever tempting dessert menu. Before Alfred could even get a glance at the array of gilded treats Ivan had swept the menu off the table and scanned it quickly.<p>

"Alfred, you like chocolate, yes?"

Another question, but even the awkward nature of the date couldn't dampen his love of sweets. Despite knowing he shouldn't order any more—what if Ivan decided later to call in a tab, or a debt, or a favor?—he grinned brightly and nodded his head.

Ivan seemed to warm at Alfred's giddy smile and, in an unprecedented gesture, handed over the dessert menu.

"You pick what you want, little Alfred," He folded his hands on the table, softly appraising the young barista's happiness. Alfred quickly picked out a fancily-named dessert which he assumed was some kind of chocolate cake. The waiter nodded, and quickly scribbled down the order before striding purposefully away.

"That is a very good choice, Alfred. I can't say I have had their _gateau moelleux au chocolat_, but I am sure it is delicious."

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><p>Dessert passed in a blur of silverware and chocolate stained lips as Alfred made quick work of the decidedly delicious treat from the moment it was set in front of him. Of course he had granted Ivan a few bites after all too often catching the businessman glancing at the cake-or at him, it was too quick a look to tell the difference. The two of them demolished the dessert piece by piece until the plate was empty, leaving the two sighing pleasantly, both sweet tooths satisfied.<p>

But Alfred felt a sting of dread cut through the happy sated feeling of being full when he saw the waiter approach and set the crisp bill down on the table.

Feeling incredibly guilty over what he-or rather, Ivan-had ordered for him, Alfred leaned forward to inspect how many paychecks worth of damage there was, only to have the bill snatched out of his reach and held aloft by Ivan's head.

"You will not be paying."

"Huh?"

Ivan gently set the bill on the table and began to rifle through the pocket of his suit coat, withdrawing and opening his gilded wallet, pulling out his credit card.

"It would be incredibly rude of me to invite you out to dinner and then expect you to pay."

Alfred gaped, open mouthed for a moment, before jabbing his finger towards the bill.

"B-But, it's gotta be like, a hundred dollars at least-"

Ivan smirked and chuckled a little, shaking his head as he slipped the credit card into the leather bill holder.

"Yes, one hundred dollars, certainly this dinner will ruin me."

The bill was soon paid, leaving Alfred feeling a thousand times more guilty than he had before. After a moment Ivan rose to his head and Alfred was tempted to follow, wanting nothing more that to escape the awkwardness and intimidation of the date with the businessman. He followed Ivan out, giving a quick wave and a goodbye to the hostess before heading out into the crisp, cool night.

Yet the date hadn't been _all_ bad, he guessed. Ivan was a nice enough guy, and hadn't tried to do anything funny to Alfred. And he had paid for the whole dinner and everything—Ivan definitely wasn't that bad of a guy.

The valet soon brought the car around, and Ivan again opened the passenger's door for Alfred before settling into the driver's seat himself.

Ivan drove Alfred back, and though the teen was hesitant to show the older man _where_ his house was, he eventually caved when Ivan didn't fall for the first few "decoy" houses. Alfred had tried giving the businessman a few fake addresses, getting out of the car and waiting for Ivan to drive off so he could call Gil or Matt to take him to his real home—but Ivan would sit there, waiting for Alfred to let himself in to the house. The teenager would wind up rocking back and forth on his heels awkwardly, looking from Ivan's car to the house before begrudgingly heading back to the Mercedes.

Alfred wondered if Ivan had gotten annoyed with him after the charade, but the businessman simply looked amused. Every time Alfred reentered the car with an embarrassed pout on his face, Ivan would only smile and laugh lightly before asking Alfred "wrong house again?"

Finally, they pulled up to the small suburban Jones' household. Ivan seemed to sense in some cosmic manner that this home was the correct one, and as he set the parking break on his car and turned off the engine, unbuckling his seatbelt.

"What are you doing?"

Ivan opened his door before turning to look over at the young barista's perplexed face.

"Alfred, what kind of man would I be if I did not walk you to your door?"

This time Alfred managed to open his own door before Ivan got to it, sliding out onto the sidewalk in front of his house. Ivan came up behind him, arm brushing up against Alfred's shoulder as the two moved up the walkway toward the teenager's home. The young blonde tried to put a little more space between him and the older businessman, but the tiny beds of flowers lining the walkway impeding him from doing so.

After what seemed like ages they finally made it to the front steps leading up to Alfred's house, where the teenager stopped. He looked at his sneaker for a moment before stuffing his hands in his pockets and turning to look up at Ivan. The businessman turned as well, looking down and waiting expectantly for Alfred to speak. And after a few seconds of awkwardly shifting from foot to foot, he finally did.

"Uh, so, yeah, big guy, I had a pretty good time. The food was really good and the cake was really awesome, and, uh—"

Ivan chuckled again, Alfred's voice petering out as he looked up, confused and perhaps a mite offended. _Damn it, if the damn businessman guy didn't laugh at him every three seconds, maybe he could manage to actually say something!_

"Say 'thank you' Alfred."

The teenager raised an eyebrow, looking up at the older man. What was he, Alfred's mother? He shrugged his shoulders, looking up at Ivan quizzically.

"Thank you?"

Alfred could barely suppress a gasp as Ivan suddenly leaned down kissed him on the cheek, a chaste but lingering touch of lips. Alfred could feel him—feel Ivan _touching_ him, the heated breath brushing against his skin in distinct contrast with the cool air of the night. Alfred felt that he couldn't breathe-but thankfully, the businessman pulled back a fraction of a second later, smiling softly.

"You're welcome. Good night, Alfred."

And then he was gone, striding back down the walkway to the car, leaving a stunned and fiercely flushed Alfred standing on his porch, feeling as if he would either drop in a dead faint or lift off the ground and float away into giddy bliss.


	6. Giddiness is Bliss

**Hey guys! I finally started to buckle down and finish the next installment of B&B! I'm going to try to be more consistent, and update this about once a week. Hopefully this will work out! Thanks to everyone who's continuing to stick with me!**

**Enjoy! This chapter is a bit short, but I can assure you it gets juicier from here on. :)))**

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><p>Alfred finally made it through the front door after a good ten minutes of standing out on his porch, dazed and light-headed and trying to mentally pinch himself to figure out whether this was all some kind of dream or not. When he finally snapped back to his senses, he practically stumbled over his tangle of legs as he opened the door and entered the living room.<p>

His parents were understandably displeased at Alfred's lateness, but the teen quickly played it off, saying that Gilbert and Matthias had invited him out for a McDonald's run after their shift ended. Dad had shrugged and outwardly taken his word for it, but Alfred could feel his mom's suspicious eyes follow him as he trundled up the stairs to his bedroom, feeling both exhausted and elated and, in any case, ready to flop on his bed and reflect. He saw Mattie peek his head out of his bedroom and give him the same look that Mom had, but he waved him off with a casual "hey" and sagged into his bedroom, deflating into his bed.

His mind was a mess of mixed emotions, his memory of the past few hours fuzzy and heavy at best. It had all seemed like some kind of dream—Ivan asking him out on a date, Ivan eating dinner with him, Ivan _kissing_ him—all of that was completely unreal. It wasn't possible—it couldn't have happened.

But it had. Alfred's cheek was still tingling from the kiss the businessman had planted their. His heart refused to settled in his chest, instead content to leap and float with every thought about Ivan that wormed into Alfred's brain.

Ivan had _kissed_ him—not on the lips, not a _real_ kiss but he had still kissed him, he had kissed Alfred and took him out on a _date_ date to a fancy restaurant, and the way he had smiled at Alfred was just—

Alfred folded his hands over his eyes and sighed, breath hitching a bit. He—he had no idea what the man wanted out of this, out of _courting _Alfred like this. Alfred didn't know what to do. He couldn't ask his parents or Mattie for advice, not when the issue at hand was that he was involved in a man who was lightyears older than him. He should—he should just break if off now. He should just straighten Ivan out tomorrow when the man came in for his afternoon coffee. That's what he _should_ do.

But—Alfred didn't _want _to. He didn't want to not see Ivan's face everyday, to be unable to see it light up in that oh-so-subtle way when Alfred handed him his coffee. He would miss too much. He would miss the light-hearted banter between them, he would miss Ivan's smile, he would miss the way his voice sounded when he said Alfred's name, would miss the slight curl of the man's hair as it drifted down towards his shoulders—

Alfred flipped himself over onto his stomach and buried his head in his pillow. He stayed like that, desperately trying to force thoughts of Ivan out of his head, until he finally drifted off into sleep, his mind full of silver hair and large hands and a myriad of less-than-chaste dreams that he would barely remember in the morning.

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><p>Alfred managed his way through both school and work, despite a history quiz that he hadn't studied for as well as the jeers and cat calls from Gilbert and Matthias, who had seen him get in the car with the businessman the previous evening. Through the snark and teasing ass pats he got in a decent afternoon's work-though his nerves began to build again as it grew closer to the usual time when Ivan would show up for his coffee.<p>

He grew more flustered, watching the clock and playing games on his phone in between customers, tapping his fingers on the counter—nervous and _impatient_.

Finally he saw the familiar car pull up, the familiar man pop out, the familiar chime of the door as the businessman entered, commanding a nervous calm to come over Alfred.

The barista, despite the fluttering nerves in his chest, looked up and smiled brightly at Ivan as then man advanced to the register. He greeted the businessman with a shy wave, opening his mouth to start up their usual banter, but—

—But then Ivan leaned down and over the register and pecked the startled barista on the nose.

Alfred's face instantly flushed bright red, spreading from where Ivan's lips touched his nose, leaking into his cheeks and staining up to his ears. He heard someone giggle, accompanied by a loud wolf whistle.

Ivan pulled back after a long, long moment, and Alfred's eyes fluttered up to meet the businessman's dark, half-lidded ones. For a moment there was-something _more_, some deeper in those indigo hues that made Alfred's heart stutter, before they brightened and Ivan smiled.

"Good afternoon, little Alfred."

The barista managed to collect himself, and he pulled back slightly from the register, running a hand quickly over his nose. It was still wet and—_warm_. He kept his hand up to help hide the blush he knew still colored his face.

"W-What was that for?" Alfred stuttered, stealing a glance up at Ivan. The man merely laughed in response. When he leaned in again Alfred practically squeaked, expecting the man to steal another kiss, maybe on the nose again, or the forehead, or the _lips_. He shut his eyes tight, shuddering as he felt a brush of hair grace his face and a puff of breath warm against his ear.

His eyes opened into a sheen of beige-blond hair, startling as a voice spoke, low and clandestine against his ear. His eyes flickered about in confusion, slowly realizing that Ivan was leaning over the register again and whispering directly into his ear.

"Tonight, little one, I will be outside of the shop again. I will wait for you until the end of your shift and then you will come out, and we will go together."

Alfred's breath quavered. _Ivan was—_

_Where the hell were they going to—?_

Alfred swallowed hard, his mind trying to process Ivan's words.

_That wasn't a request, he had—was this going to be another date_?

_Wait, no—last night hadn't been a date! Not at all!_

Ivan's breath curled one more time around Alfred's ear before he moved back, straightening up again. He flattened and readjusted his suit, smile as cool and calm as it always was. Alfred nervously ran his hand through his hair. Ivan reached out and gently tucked a stray blond piece behind his ear, the brief contact of Ivan's watch against his cheek causing the boy to look up. Ivan kept his hand there, cupping the invisible cushion of space between his palm and Alfred's cheek.

"I hope that you brought a change of clothes tonight, Alfred. It would be a shame if you had to stay in your uniform all night again, no?"

Alfred swallowed dryly as Ivan finally pulled his hand back to his own side of the register—and once again the two were customer and employee as Ivan ordered his typical coffee and Alfred set about making it, trying to ignore the boggled expression of both Matthias and Gilbert, the former of whom had dropped an armful of silverware, sending it clattering across the floor. Alfred wondered why he hadn't heard the noise.

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><p><strong>Read &amp; Review please! :)) Next chapter, our two potential lovebirds go on another date, and perhaps Ivan decides to make a move on the little barista~<strong>


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